Percepliquis

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Get him away from me, before I kill him,” Royce growled between gritted teeth, his voice unsteady, his eyes hard.

  “You can’t kill Myron, Royce,” Hadrian said, rapidly pulling the monk away as if he had found a child playing with a wild bear. “It would be like killing a puppy.”

  Royce did not want to kill Myron. He honestly did not know what he wanted, except for him to stop. Everything the monk had said hurt, because it was all true. The monk’s words were not close. They were not worrisomely accurate. What he said was dead-on, as if he were reading Royce’s mind and speaking his innermost thoughts aloud—holding his terrors to the light and exposing them.

  “Are you all right, Royce?” Hadrian asked, still holding Myron close. His tone was cautious, nervous.

  “He’ll be fine,” Myron replied for him.

  The five boys and Myron had left the dinner table, followed shortly by Hadrian and Wyatt, who took plates up to Royce and Elden respectively. Alric, who had eaten his fill, loosened his belt but made no move to leave. He sat back, smiling, as Ayers brought out another bottle of wine and set it on the table before them. For the first time since they had started this trip, Alric was feeling good. This was more like it. He could see the same expression in Mauvin’s eyes. This was the dream of their youth: riding hard, exploring, seeing strange new sights, and in the evening settling in at a local inn for a fine meal and a night of drinking, laughing, and singing. At last, the carefree days of his boyhood—once stolen—now returned. This was an adventure at last. This was a man’s aspiration, a chance to live life to the fullest.

  “My finest stock,” Ayers told them with pride.

  “That’s awfully kind of you,” Arista said. “But we need to be getting up early tomorrow.”

  “It’s not polite to insult a host like that, Arista,” Alric said, feeling her hands trying to strangle his dream.

  “I didn’t—Alric, you can’t stay up all night drinking and expect to get an early start in the morning.”

  He frowned at her. This was why she had never been included in his and Mauvin’s plans. “The man wants to honor us, all right? If you’re tired, go to bed and leave us be.”

  Arista huffed loudly and threw her napkin on the table before walking out.

  “Your sister isn’t pleased with you,” Gaunt observed.

  “Are you just discovering that now?” Alric replied.

  “Shall I open it?” Ayers asked.

  “I don’t know,” Alric muttered.

  “It would be best to do as she tells you,” Gaunt said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I only meant her being in charge and all. You don’t want to become the nail sticking out. I can see why you’re afraid of her and I sympathize, believe me. You saw the way she treated me when we left—but what can we do? She holds all the power.”

  “She’s not in charge,” Alric growled. “I am.” He looked at Ayers. “Open that bottle, my good man, and pour liberally.”

  Gaunt smiled. “I guess I misjudged you, Your Majesty. I’ve actually been doing too much of that. Take Magnus here, for example.”

  Alric preferred not to. The idea that he had just finished a meal with—and was about to drink at the same table with—his father’s killer sickened him.

  “I was offended that I had to ride with a dwarf, but it turns out he’s not a bad companion. True, he’s not exactly a big talker, but he’s interesting just the same. Did you know he’s held here by the hairs of his beard—literally? He’s another member of our exclusive club who your sister controls and forces to do her bidding.”

  “My sister doesn’t control me,” Alric snapped.

  “And you had best watch your tongue, my friend,” Mauvin advised Gaunt. “You are treading on dangerous ground.”

  “My apologies. Perhaps I am mistaken. Please forgive me. It’s just that I’ve never seen a woman lead a mission like this before. It’s shocking to me, but then again, you come from the north, and I come from the south, where women are expected to stay behind while their men go off to fight. Allow me to toast her.” He raised his glass. “To the princess Arista, our lovely leader.”

  “I told you, she’s not in charge. I am,” Alric said with more force.

  Gaunt smiled and raised his other hand defensively. “I meant no offense.” He raised his glass again. “To you, then, to King Alric, the true leader of this mission.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Alric joined him and drank.

  CHAPTER 8

  AMBERTON LEE

  People were singing in the streets. They danced and it did not seem to matter with whom. Streamers flew through the air and explosions of light illuminated the sky like magic. Bands played and every face reflected their joy. The doors to all the shops were open, their wares free to the people on the street—free bread, free cakes, free meats, free drinks. People took whatever they liked and the owners smiled and waved.

  “Good Founding!” they shouted to each other. “Good Founding to you! May Novron bless his home and people!”

  She felt disturbed at this, although she did not know why. Something was wrong. She looked at the faces. They did not know.

  Know what? she wondered. She had to hurry. Time was running out. Running out? What is going to happen?

  She had to move, but not too quickly. It was important not to give them cause for suspicion. She must get to the rendezvous. She squeezed the necklaces in her hand. Working the spell had taken all night. There was not even time to say goodbye to Elinya and that broke her heart.

  As she hurried along, she knew she would never see Elinya again. Turning onto the Grand Mar, she saw the imperial guards waiting in the eaves. Each group was led by a Teshlor knight. The three swords the knights carried marked them as surely as their imperial armor did. Heroes of the realm, the protectors of the emperor—assassins all.

  She had to find Nevrik and Jerish.

  Pausing at the Column of Destone, she turned. The palace was straight ahead, not more than another half mile. She could see the great golden dome. Emperor Nareion and his family were there. Her heart pounded, and her breath came in short gasps. She could go. She could face them. She could fight. They would not expect that and she could get the first incantation. She would blow the whole miserable palace apart and let the glass and stone rip through the bleeding bastards. But she knew it would not be enough. This would not stop them, but she would kill a few and hurt many others. Not Venlin, though, and not Yolric. They would kill her—maybe not Yolric, but Venlin certainly. Venlin would not hesitate. She would be dead, the imperial family would follow, and Nevrik and Jerish would be lost.

  No, she needed to sacrifice the father for the son. It was the emperor’s wish, his order. The line must endure at all costs. The line must survive.

  She turned and ran down Ebonydale, weaving her fingers, masking her movement. She had to get the necklaces to them. Then they could hide. The empire would be safe—at least one small piece. Once the amulets were safely around their necks and they were on their way, she would turn back. And Maribor help the traitors then, for she was done hiding. They would see the power of a Cenzar unleashed, unrestrained by edict. She would destroy the entire city if she needed to. Lay it all to waste. Bury it deep beneath the earth and let them spend eternity picking through the rubble.

  For now, though, she had to hurry. It was time to go.

  Time to go.

  Time to—

  Arista woke up.

  It was dark, but as always, the robe was glowing faintly, revealing the small, sparse room. She felt as if she had fallen from one world to another. She was in a hurry to do something, but that was only a dream. Out the window, she could just make out the first hints of morning light. Slowly she remembered she was in The Laughing Gnome in Ratibor. She kicked off the blankets and reached out with her toes, looking for her boots. The fire was out and the room was cold. Touching the floorboards was like standing on ice.

  In just a few moments, she was moving up the c
orridor, knocking on doors, hearing people groan from behind them. Downstairs, the crowd from the night before was gone; the common room looked like a storm had passed through. Bella was up and Arista smelled leftover lamb and onions. The rest staggered down groggily, wavering as they wiped their eyes. Mauvin’s hair was worse than ever, as several locks stood up on one side. Magnus could not stop yawning, and Alric kept dragging his hands over his face as if trying to remove a veil. Only Myron appeared alert, as if he had been up for some time.

  While they ate, Ayers ordered Jimmy into the cold to saddle the animals. Hadrian and Mauvin took pity on the boy, and along with the other boys, they all went out to help him. By the time the sun breached the horizon, they were ready to leave.

  “Arista?” Alric stopped her as she headed for the door. They were alone in the common room, standing beside the bar, where a dozen mugs reeked of stale beer. “I would appreciate it if you were a little less quick to give orders in my presence. I am king, after all.”

  “What did I… Are you mad that I woke everyone up?”

  “Well, yes—to be honest—I am. That and everything else you’ve done. You are constantly undermining my authority. You make me… well, you make me look weak and I want you to stop.”

  “All I did was get people out of bed so we could get an early start. If you were up pounding on doors, I wouldn’t have to. I told you that staying up late wasn’t a good idea, but you didn’t listen. Or would you rather we had waited until noon?”

  “Of course not, and I’m glad you got everyone up, but…”

  “But what?”

  “It’s just that you are always doing that, always taking command.”

  “Seems to me I wanted to ride on to Amberton Lee yesterday, but you ordered us here. Did I argue?”

  “You started to. If I hadn’t ridden off, we’d still be debating it.”

  Arista rolled her eyes. “What do you want me to do, Alric, not talk anymore? You want me to crawl in with the rest of the supplies in the sled and pretend I’m not here?”

  “That’s just it. You—you insert yourself into everything. You shouldn’t be here at all. This is no place for a woman.”

  “You may be king, but this is my mission. Modina didn’t assign this task to me. I went to her to explain where I was going. This was my idea—my responsibility. I would have gone even if no one else did, even if Modina forbade me. And let me remind you that unless we succeed, you won’t be king of anything.”

  Alric’s face was red, his cheeks full, his eyes angry.

  “Lovers’ quarrel?” Mauvin asked, walking in with a smile. When neither replied, he dropped the expression. “Okay—never mind. I just forgot my gloves—but, ah… the horses are ready.” He picked the gloves up off a table and quickly slipped back out.

  “Listen,” Arista said in a quieter tone. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ll try to be more of a lady if you want, and I’ll let you lead.” She gestured outside. “They would probably prefer taking orders from a man, anyway.”

  There was a long pause and she said, “Still hate me?”

  Alric wore a nasty look on his face, but the storm had passed. “Let’s go. People are waiting.”

  He walked past her and Arista sighed and followed him.

  By midmorning, they found the ancient road. Royce seemed better and rode with Hadrian at the head of the column, guiding them along narrow trails, paths, and even frozen rivers. Alric took his position right behind them. Arista stayed back. She rode with Myron once more, this time just behind the wagon. They left the farmlands and entered an unclaimed wilderness of fields and thickets. Not long after reaching the woods, they came upon a broad avenue. It did not look the same as when Arista had ridden on it with Etcher. The snow hid the paving stones and weeds. Arista stopped Princess broadside in the avenue and looked up and down its length. “Straight as a maypole,” she muttered.

  The monk looked at her.

  “This is it,” she told him. “The road to Percepliquis. Under this snow are stones laid thousands of years ago by order of Novron.”

  Myron looked down. “It’s nice,” he replied politely.

  They followed the tracks left by the sled ahead of them. There was silence as they rode through the trees. Here the snow was a soft powder and muffled everything, the sound of the horses and sled smothered to a whisper.

  Once more, they traveled without much comment. Not long after they had started up the road, Magnus brought up the subject of lunch, and she was pleased to hear Alric say they would eat when they reached the Lee. The sun had passed overhead and shadows were forming on the other side of the trees when they began climbing a steep hill. As they cleared the gray fingers of the forest, Arista saw the snow-crowned summit ahead. On it were broken shapes of cut stone, ruins of a great city poking up through the surface. Ancient walls buried now in earth and snow caught the pale light of a late-winter afternoon.

  It is a grave, she thought, and wondered how she could have missed this before. A sense of sadness and loss radiated from the mounds now that she understood what she was seeing. Pillars lay half buried in the hillside, mammoth headstones of a giant’s graveyard; broken steps of marble and walls of stone lay crumbled. Only one tree stood upon the hill—it appeared dead but, like the rest of the ruins, still stood long after its time. The strange shapes rose from the earth, casting blue shadows. The scene was beautiful—beautiful but sad, in the way a lake can still be beautiful even when frozen.

  Royce raised a hand for them to stop when they reached the base of the open hillside. He dismounted and went ahead on foot. They all waited, listening to the jangle of the bridles as the horses shook their heads, unhappy with the interruption.

  When he returned, he spoke briefly with Hadrian and Alric. Arista’s brother glanced back at her as if he might say something or call her up to ask advice. He looked away and the party moved on once more. Arista fought the urge to trot ahead and inquire about what was happening. It was frustrating to sit in the dark, sentenced to the corner like a naughty child, but it was important for Alric to hold the reins. She squeezed her hands into fists. She loved her brother, but she did not trust him to make the right decisions.

  Hadrian is up there with him, she thought. He won’t let him do anything stupid. Thank Maribor she had Hadrian with her. He was the only one in the party she felt she could rely on, the only one she could lean on without fear of breaking or offending. Just looking at the back of him as he bounced on his horse was comforting.

  They climbed to the summit and dismounted.

  “We’ll have lunch,” Alric announced. “Myron, come up here, will you?”

  Royce, Alric, and Myron spoke together for several minutes while Arista sat on some stone, absently eating strips of smoked beef and exhausting her jaws in the attempt. Ibis had sent full meals, but she was in no mood. The chewing gave her something to do besides walking over there.

  She turned away to see Elden staring at her. He looked away bashfully, pretending to search in his pack for something.

  “Don’t mind him, my lady,” Wyatt said. “Or should I address you as Your Highness?”

  “You can call me Arista,” she said, and watched his eyes widen.

  “Seriously?”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  He shrugged. “Okay, then, Arista.” He spoke the word gingerly. “Elden here, he doesn’t get out much, and when he has, it’s been on board ships where there aren’t any women. I suspect you’re the first lady he’s seen up close in—well, as long as I’ve known him. And I’m sure you’re the only noblewoman he’s ever seen.”

  She touched her matted hair and the robe that hung on her like a smock. “Not a very good example, I’m afraid. I’m not exactly Lady Lenare Pickering, am I? I’m not even the best-looking princess here. My horse takes that title. Her name is Princess.” She smiled.

  Wyatt looked at her, puzzled. “You sure don’t speak like a noblewoman. I mean, you do—but you don’t.”

  “That’s ve
ry coherent, Mr. Deminthal.”

  “There, you see? Those are the words of a princess—putting me in my place with eloquence and grace.”

  “As well she should,” Hadrian said, appearing beside her. “Do I need to keep an eye on you?” he asked Wyatt.

  “I thought you were his bodyguard.” He pointed at Gaunt, who remained on the wagon with the dwarf, their lunches resting on the bench between them.

  “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?”

  “What did Royce find?” Arista asked.

  “Tracks, but they’re old.”

  “What kind of tracks?”

  “Ghazel—probably a scouting party. Looks like King Fredrick was right about the flood. But we are still a ways from Vilan Hills. I’m surprised they are scouting out this far.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “And Alric has Myron and Royce trying to find the entrance?”

  “Yep, they’re looking for a river. Hall’s book tells of a river flowing into a hole.”

  “What about the tracks?”

  “What about them?”

  “Have you followed them?”

  “They’re too old to be a threat. Royce guesses they were made more than a week ago.”

  “Maybe they aren’t from Vilan Hills. The Patriarch said Ghazel were in Percepliquis. Follow the tracks… They might lead to the entrance. And get Magnus off the wagon. Isn’t he supposed to be an expert at finding underground passages?”

  Hadrian stared at her stupidly. “You’re absolutely right.” He started to return to the others.

  “Hadrian?” She stopped him.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t tell Alric I said anything. Say it was your idea.”

  He looked confused for a second, then said, “Oh—right.” He nodded with sympathy. Hadrian started to climb the hill, then waved at Wyatt. “Com’on, sailor, you can help look too.”

  “But I’m still—”

  Hadrian gave him a smirk.

  “Okay, okay. Excuse me, my lady—ah—Arista.”